One Lavender Ribbon Read online

  “I’m not afraid to die.” Determination set his jaw as his gaze moved to the window. “But I’m also not afraid to live.” William rose, slipped on his shoes, and went downstairs to get the boat key. He was headed for the pier.

  By morning, the storm had passed, and the silver box waited. Adrienne slept late, and the aching in her muscles confirmed overwork. Sanding an entire fireplace mantle that had fifty-plus years of layers of paint would do that to a body. She could count off the decades as she sanded. The yellow of the sixties, avocado green of the seventies, and then white. Layers and layers of white. But she’d almost completed the project. Just a few finishing touches remained. The desire for completion had fueled her for the better part of the day. Morning had turned to midday, and midday to dusk as she sanded and scraped like a maniac, shoving loose strands of hair from her eyes, blotting the sweat from her brow, barely stopping to take a break. Now she was wishing she’d used a little wisdom. Every muscle screamed. She needed a massage.

  But the new home was finally becoming a warm replacement for the cold marriage she’d endured. Poetic justice. Her divorce settlement had purchased the house and would pay for restoring it while she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life. For now, the house would be her sole profession and her most appreciated companion. Its beautiful antebellum back porch stretching the length of the house, framed stunning views of the Gulf of Mexico. Gentle waves brushed toward her each morning as she sipped good coffee and contemplated the day’s project. But her body bore the abuse the renovation entailed. Adrienne needed to learn to ignore it. Today, she intended to ignore everything about the house. Not that she could pick up a hammer if she wanted to. She couldn’t—her muscle groups were all on strike. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Her attention had drifted elsewhere. She hurried downstairs, made coffee, and settled into a comfy chair to read. She placed the photograph beside her and dove into the letters.

  August 1944

  Dear Gracie,

  I may be brief with this letter, but I promised to share with you all that I experience. War makes a man different. I’ve no other way to explain but that. Though this is a gray and dying world around me, there are tiny glimpses of vibrancy on the muted canvas. I live for those splashes of color and light. But I met death today. He stalks us even when we rest, giving no mercy. He knows no bounds. We sat in camp, some talking, others playing cards, awaiting word on our next mission. Runner—we call him that because his father makes moonshine in the South Carolina mountains—was relaxed at a table one moment, then collapsed the next. We’ve been trained in combat death, but not the kind that sneaks silently into the hallowed place of one’s daily order of life. This death touches me deeply because we had stayed up late into the night, talking about the ocean and fishing and life. His plans for return. And mine. I told him of you and Sara and deep-sea fishing on the Gulf. We joked that we would compare fish stories—him on the Atlantic and me on the Gulf. He’d decided to stop running moonshine. I told him that was good. And today he is gone. We’ve lost many. And more arrive to take their place, but that is the nature of war. And war is the nature of death. But death is not the nature of life. And yet, I am beginning to see that it is. Death is not an anomaly. Life—life is the anomaly. And what a glorious gift it is.

  I won’t shelter you from what I see. You are strong, Grace. If I don’t share with you, I feel there will be a part of me that closes off. I must not let that happen. I won’t close any part of myself from you. I love you. Forgive me for loving you so much.

  William

  By the time she’d finished another letter, Adrienne formed a plan. She grabbed a quick shower and headed out the door, the address scrawled on a scrap of paper and the photograph tucked into her jacket pocket.

  She forced her thoughts from the scenarios fluttering through her mind and concentrated on the drive, still loving the fact that she frequently passed things like signs pointing the way to the Gulf beaches and tiny little saltwater tackle shops that looked like a strong wind could drop them. Looking at palm tree–lined roads passed the time.

  Less than twenty minutes and she was there. Adrienne chewed the inside of her cheek because her bottom lip couldn’t take any more abuse, and regarded the house. Her initial excitement waned. All morning—before the short drive from her home in Bonita Springs to Naples—this had seemed like a good idea. Now, apprehension crawled over her skin like fire ants. This was silly. She pressed her palm to her forehead and scanned the pretty dwelling at 41123 Canal Boulevard. She checked the address against the ornate numbers over the front door. What on Earth would she say? Hi, I’m a pathetic divorcée who has to live vicariously through letters about people I’ve never met. Adrienne put a hand to her stomach. Divorcée. She still hadn’t completely reconciled with that. The divorce, yes. Eric—brilliant cardiologist and adulterer—made it easy to walk away, but being a divorced woman at age twenty-eight, that was still difficult to swallow. It’s not like she was old. She’d married right out of college and now she was divorced. Which made her feel like a failure. Her fingers threaded through her hair in an attempt to erase her frustrations, but things like disillusionment and divorce didn’t go away easily.

  Adrienne threw out a breath and slid from the car, giving the door a good slam to trap the aggravation inside the hot vehicle. Off to the side of the house lay an impressive garden like one might see on the cover of one of those DIY magazines she’d started collecting when she purchased the house. But she didn’t have time to examine it now.

  Before she could change her mind, she headed to the front porch, her back arrow straight. The crisp white two-story sported pots of flowers arranged on a long front patio. A wooden swing anchored one corner, and the luscious scent of all the brightly colored flowers filled her nose. The wicker patio table and chairs waited for someone to sit, offering colored cushions to sink into. The home was about the size of her towering Victorian monster, but newer and in that beautiful Tuscan style of terra cotta rooftops and stucco walls. Without so much as a pause to catch her breath, she knocked.

  When the door swung open, the blood drained from her face. Deep-green eyes greeted her. Beautiful eyes, she noted, for an instant forgetting why she’d come. He was handsome. But sadly, about fifty years too young to be whom she sought.

  “Can I help you?” A light smile tilted the corners of his mouth, and his shoulders filled the doorway.

  “Yes,” she muttered. What had she practiced saying? She couldn’t remember. Something about how she’d just moved here and bought a house on Hidden Beach Road in Bonita Springs. For support, she clutched the photo in her jacket pocket. “I’m looking for William Bryant.”

  He considered her a moment. “I’m William Bryant. But everyone calls me Will.”

  “Well, the Mr. Bryant I’m looking for is a World War II veteran and—”

  “Good ol’ war days,” she thought he mumbled.

  She leaned closer. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” But it was something, and she could see it clearly in the instant of frustration framing his mouth and the slight flare of his nostrils. “I’m certainly no war veteran. Sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  He moved to close the door, and her hand flew up, palm flat against the cool wood. There was something familiar about this man. She rubbed the photo in her pocket. “Look, I’m not trying to cause any problems or anything, but . . . ” This wasn’t going at all the way she’d imagined. She should just walk away, but the fact was, this man and the William from the letters shared a name. They had to be relatives.

  The emerald eyes hardened. “But what?”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to Mr. Bryant about his war experience. I have—”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re looking for a WWII veteran so you can get him to talk to you about the war. And that doesn’t seem insensitive to you?”

  Adrienne’s cheeks heated, and her palms turned clammy. “Insensitive,” she echoed. She hadn’t even thought o
f that.

  “As I said, I’m no war veteran, and I can’t help you with finding this other Mr. Bryant. But if I were him, I’d seriously have my doubts about someone who showed up at my doorstep wanting to know about the hardest time of my life.”

  A strong wind surged around the house and smacked her face with the precise force his words smacked her. She needed to explain, but her voice left her, all that energy going into holding the stranger’s door open and fighting to stay erect against the wind’s onslaught. Nervous tension flew off her in waves solid enough to drift away upon. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  The man stood there like a statue, brows riding high and daring her to explain.

  Well, when he put it like that, there was no explanation that could suffice.

  After a few horrible seconds, his eyes slid from her face to her hand, still flattened against his front door.

  Adrienne followed his gaze to her left hand, the tiny band of lighter skin on her ring finger that, after three months of daily sunshine, still didn’t match the rest of her flesh. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

  He noticed. His gaze softened on her, only marginally, but enough for her to feel it.

  “Miss, I’m very sorry I can’t help you.” He offered a weak smile. Maybe it was sincere, maybe not. She’d heard pity before. And she hated it. Worse than anything . . . except maybe Eric’s condescension.

  He tossed a thumb behind him. “I’m, uh, in the middle of something.” But his body language told a different story. The tension around his eyes had lessened, mouth relaxed. A tenderness worked its way toward her.

  She plucked her hand from the door, feeling more defiance than despair. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. “Of course. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “No problem.” He almost sounded sincere; the taut muscles of his chest had loosened, releasing some of their strain; his shoulders, broad and tight beneath a T-shirt, dropped a few millimeters.

  Expecting him to shut the door and let her leave, Adrienne’s gaze fell to the porch floor with its fresh stain. Her fingertips were stained a similar shade. Maybe that’s what he’d noticed, not the missing ring on her hand. Walnut stain looked better on porch floors than on skin.

  When Will didn’t close the door, she glanced up. His head tipped to the side, and his weight fell against the doorjamb. He cocked one foot in front of the other.

  Those green eyes probed again, this time filled with sparks of curiosity. It caused a prickly sensation along her neck. Just close the stupid door! I made a mistake. She tried to turn and leave. Unfortunately, her feet didn’t cooperate. As her upper body pivoted, her lower body stiffened. She felt the frown crease her brow and deepen. Embarrassment flushed her, because Adrienne really, truly wanted to believe in love. It was a shocking realization, one she’d rather not visit while standing on a complete stranger’s property. But the words drifted through her mind again. I know there’s real love out there. The kind she’d read about in William’s letters. Now, standing on the front porch of a man she didn’t know, her desperation almost overwhelmed her.

  Divorcée.

  Tiny lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes. “Have we met?”

  Absently, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t think so. I’ve only lived here a few months.”

  His gaze coasted from her head downward. A smile slashed his face. “You seem familiar.”

  “I, uh, get that sometimes. People say I favor—” She fumbled with her walnut-stained fingers.

  “Angelina Jolie?” he finished for her.

  “No, Jennifer Garner.”

  His eyes narrowed playfully. “I can see that. But your mouth is full, like Angelina’s.”

  Adrienne swallowed hard. Seriously? Mr. Rude and Grumpy wanted to stand around and flirt? No thanks. Mortification caused a person to want to climb into a hole, not play games. She lifted her hand into the air. “Well, as I said, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “The bank.”

  “Excuse me?” Please, please, feet, step off this porch.

  “You recently opened an account at the bank where I work.”

  Frowning, she thought back. She had opened a savings account at the Naples branch of her bank. But if this guy had waited on her, surely she would have remembered. “You helped me?”

  “No, but I noticed you from my office.”

  She raised a brow.

  He laughed. “Hard not to.”

  She should say thanks or something. But honestly, this whole interaction had thrown her off her game. Who was she kidding? She didn’t have a game. And—she began to realize—she was really bad at interacting with men. She stared at a pot of plants to the left and chewed on her stained fingernail. Not with all men. This kind of man. The handsome, strong kind that made her stomach tighten a little. Adrienne was going to need practice before entering the dating world.

  With Ryan it had been different. He’d shown up in her life right after the divorce and helped her unload her baggage. Well, if a guy sees that much of your baggage and doesn’t run off screaming, it sort of endears him to you. But Ryan wasn’t the kind of man she could see herself ending up with. A college boy might be a great playmate, but he was a long way from dating material. Too many years of fun still wrestling under his skin.

  Adrienne blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Got lost in my thoughts there for a second.”

  A half smile appeared on his face. “Obviously.” He stayed positioned in the doorway, his faded jeans stretched over muscular thighs and his T-shirt over a set of pecs that hardly screamed “bank teller”. She forced a smile. “It was nice to meet you, William. I really am sorry I interrupted your Saturday morning.”

  “I go by Will, remember?”

  “Will, then.” Adrienne drew in a breath and turned to leave. A breeze ruffled her hair as she reached the bottom of his steps.

  “Do you live in Naples?” he called out.

  She paused, her fingers gripping the railing, and glanced back at him. “Bonita Springs.”

  “Why’d you go to the Naples branch to open your savings account?”

  Her grip tightened on the railing. Well, best to stop this whole flirting thing right here and now. “Why?” she repeated.

  “I’m just curious.” His brows quirked, and she noticed a tiny dimple on one side of his face.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  His eyes widened. He probably already thought she was crazy.

  Adrienne pulled in a breath and let the wind have its way, leaning into the gusts instead of fighting them. “I don’t know the area very well. I hardly know anyone who lives here except my next-door neighbor who owns a coffee shop in Bonita, and a guy who helped me move in. Oh, and a myriad of subcontractors that I call when I get myself in over my head. You know what? That’s too much info. I went to the bank in Naples to expand my world.” She threw her hands up and waited for him to suggest calling the white coats.

  Will Bryant ran his tongue over his teeth and gave a quick nod. “Makes sense.”

  “Okay, so nice to meet you—What did you say?”

  He shrugged. “You’re new to the area. Makes perfect sense. It’s your bank. You need to take ownership. Feel at home at both branches.”

  She blinked. Wow, she didn’t fully understand her logic, but he seemed to. Or maybe he was making fun of her. She watched him with suspicious eyes for a long moment.

  “I guess I’ll see you at the bank sometime?”

  She waited a bit before nodding, but he didn’t burst out in laughter, so Adrienne let some of the tension in her muscles drain. She took one last look at him, then turned and started toward her car. She didn’t look up, but she was pretty certain he still stood there staring at her.

  Adrienne gripped the steering wheel and scolded herself. Why hadn’t she just called and saved herself from this whole thing? Then again, Will couldn’t know how pathetic she was, right? Right. There was no one to judge
her. No one knew why she’d really come. That solidified just how alone she was.

  Movement in an upstairs window drew her attention.

  She saw a hand tilt the curtain. A shadow, a silhouette of someone watched her from the darkened room. Slowly, the fingers released, and the curtain fell into place.

  Adrienne turned her attention back to the car and tapped her thumb on the steering wheel. “You’ll see me again, Will Bryant.”

  Will ran up the stairs and got back on his rowing machine, his mind on the woman who’d just left. He remembered seeing her at the bank in all her tanned glory, long dark hair floating down her shoulders and back. Up close, she was even more stunning, with giant coffee-colored eyes. He blew through his workout, thinking about those eyes and wondering what made them so sad. Like she carried the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders, and the load was getting heavy.

  He shouldn’t have let her leave his house so quickly. She’d pretty much thrown him the proverbial bone. I’m new in town. Don’t really know anyone. Man, he was dense when it came to women. It hadn’t even occurred to him that that might have been an invitation, until she was gone.

  Will didn’t hear Pops, so he peeked out his upstairs bedroom window, knowing what he’d find. The backyard was too slick for Pops to walk down to the boat, but he had a feeling that’s exactly what Pops was doing. Before he could get the window open and call for him, he heard the boat motor come to life. Will shook his head and returned to the rowing machine. An extra-long workout couldn’t hurt. After all, it was Saturday.

  Thirty minutes later he heard the boat return. He moved to the window and peeled back the shade. The bright Florida sunshine streamed in as his eyes drifted to the canal that began where his backyard ended. A perfect morning. The kind Pops couldn’t resist.

  Using a hand towel, he dabbed at the sweat he’d accumulated and rubbed menthol cream into his knees. I shouldn’t have to do this yet. I’m only thirty.